CHAPTER 2 LUG NUTS, LEMONADE, AND LIES #2
There are three owners still by their cars between where the courier is standing and the kettle corn stand, but not any car show attendees. It seems the band has drawn everyone from this section to them. Interesting. We really thought it would most likely be a spectator.
I say, “Nora, navy and red 1965 Triumph Bonneville, plum 1969 Chevrolet Camaro, and silver-striped 1970 Chevrolet Chevelle.” I know she’s cross-checking the registrations to find the owners of the cars, and then searching for information we have on any of them.
Meanwhile, the courier is still camped out at the motorcycle, but now he’s turned to watch the band.
I start meandering past the next couple of cars, drifting nearer to the courier.
The Lug Nuts have reached the chorus of their song. It must be one they sing every year, because at least half of the crowd joins in, singing right along with the band.
“Oh, turnip truck baby! Don’t you let your heart sour.
I’ve got a full tank of gas and—” With even more gusto, they belt out the last line, holding out the last note: “A heart full of horsepower!” They’re all holding their lemonades, water bottles, or beers up in the air as they sing.
The band plays their instruments even louder, which I hadn’t thought was possible, given what they’re made of.
Nora says in my earpiece, “I’ve checked on all three owners, and we don’t have much on any of them.” I can barely hear her, though, because the volume of the band—and the crowd— has surged.
Through my comms, Kella asks, “Do we know who is wearing the turnip suit?”
“Negative,” Nora says.
So, the mascot is a possibility. Plus, between the wide belly of Turnip Man and the shoots of green atop his head, there are plenty of places to stash an envelope. Something feels off about that, though.
All eyes are on the band, so the courier takes the moment to move.
He goes to the plum-colored Camaro with the proud papa out front, just as the guy’s wife has headed back after getting her photo with the turnip.
The courier doesn’t talk to the man—he just starts circling the car, checking it out.
The man’s wife goes past their lawn chairs and to a cooler near the back of the vehicle, moves things around, then closes the lid again without taking anything out.
Instead of going to her lawn chair, the woman goes to the back of the vehicle just as the courier does.
I’m close enough to see expressions on faces, and they aren’t the guarded, assessing expressions of two people who have never seen one another.
It’s a look of trust that can’t pass between strangers.
The courier puts one hand in his pocket and pulls out the envelope just as the woman reaches forward to surreptitiously meet his.
The envelope is passed off, and her motion is fluid as she transfers it to her own pocket.
Then she continues walking past the man as if they hadn’t even noticed each other.
Like her sole focus has been a smudge on the fender that she’s about to vanquish.
Across the row of cars, I catch sight of Kella. Her gaze isn’t on the envelope—it’s on the face of the woman who’d taken it. Progress.
My phone buzzes as I’m nearing the kettle corn stand, so I pull it out of its holster.
Reese: Like what?
I have to glance back up at our conversation. She was asking about what mystery I wanted the answer to. I send a return text as the courier is trying to make it look like he’s suddenly interested in the back of the silver-striped Chevelle.
Miles: Whether two people who look like strangers are actually strangers.
Reese: That is oddly specific.
Miles: I’m in client relations. People are my job.
Reese: Right. Of course. Your very normal, very boring job.
Miles: Painfully normal. Tragically boring.
I send the text and step around a man polishing the logo on the front of his car.
Just as the woman at the back of the plum-colored car rounds its side toward the lawn chairs, I tap the right frame of my sunglasses to zoom in on her.
She turns directly toward me for a moment, giving Nora a clear still image to pull from the video streaming to her through my glasses.
I head past the vintage musicians singing about being abandoned near the rutabaga stand with a tailpipe full of dust, and say into my comms, “Let me know if you get an ID on the woman.”
A moment later, Nora says, “Got it. Marlene Atwood. No criminal history. She is the personal assistant for Celeste Alati.”
Celeste’s name has surfaced in enough international investigations to have her own file at the CSA, although never in a way anyone has managed to make stick. “She and the courier know each other,” I say. “What overlap between them can you find?”
“Running it now.” Nora is quiet for a moment, then says, “Nothing obvious. No shared employers, addresses, known associates, travel overlap, or family connections.”
Yet the two of them moved like they’d rehearsed the steps.
Kella, who I can see is also heading toward the north exit, asks, “So, how do they know each other?”
I take a slow breath. “That’s the real question.” One I’m going to have to look into a lot more deeply when we get back to headquarters.
Kella and I leave the car show two minutes apart so we won’t be seen together. Once we both reach the rendezvous site with the helicopter that’s just outside of town, Kella tells me as we’re walking toward it, “I feel like I failed that mission.”
I shake my head. “You didn’t. You kept an eye on the courier and saw the envelope. You witnessed the exchange, and we got the contact identified. That’s what we were there for.”
“But I couldn’t tell who the contact was going to be until the exchange happened. I missed it.”
“I didn’t know, either, until it happened. You’ll run into that a lot—that’s why we stay alert and watch everything. You completed the mission objective—you only missed that there was a relationship between the courier and contact.”
“Is that supposed to make me feel better? It could end up being a key piece of info.”
“Most people spend their lives only noticing what is right in front of them. The trick is noticing what ties it all together. You’ll get better at it with each mission.”
As we step onto the helicopter, Kella nods with a resolution that I know means she’ll keep pushing herself until she’s a great field operative.
The helicopter lifts to take us back to the CSA, and I pull out my phone to text Reese.
Miles: Speaking of knowing the answers to mysteries… are you up for a murder mystery night?
Reese: Always. You don’t have a hot date tonight, huh?
Miles: Nope. I’m completely free. Want to come to my place? I have apple cider and plenty of whodunit theories.
Reese: My favorite combination. I’ll bring not only my witty, mystery-solving self, but also cinnamon sugar pita chips with honey cream cheese dip.
Miles: Great. Come prepared to accuse at least three innocent people before the first commercial break.
I slide my phone back into its holder. I have a ninety-minute helicopter ride, a change back into my regular clothes, and a debrief to make it through while pretending I’m not counting down to the moment when I’ll sit beside Reese Wilder on my couch.
If friendship is all Reese has to give, it’s what I’ll happily take. I just wish I didn’t want so much more.